


and went with half my life about my ways

by impertinency



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinency/pseuds/impertinency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Robb had asked Jon to stay. He’d pushed Jon against the trunk of the weirwood with shaking hands, anger and despair heavy in his gut, and pleaded for him not to leave. Had swallowed each of Jon’s objections and explanations with a kiss, had whispered a litany of pleas and promises into Jon’s skin. But it wasn’t enough to convince him to stay. Robb wonders now if it was ever enough. </p><p>(Or, a story where some events change, some stay the same, and some are entirely unavoidable)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/13612.html?thread=8311852#t8311852) at asoiafkinkmeme because it was too good to resist. This is a mesh of book and show canon, though it's more heavily influenced by book canon than show canon. I've played around with the timelines mostly because GRRM's timelines are ridiculously hard for me to remember at this point in the series.
> 
> Spoilers for _A Storm of Swords_ / season three (though if you've caught up with the last episode you're good). 
> 
> Title from the A.E. Housman poem quoted below.

  
_He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?_   
_He would not stay for me to stand and gaze._   
_I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,_   
_And went with half my life about my ways. - A. E. Housman_

 

 

His men place a crown on his head and remake him with iron and bronze and steel, with snow and ice and vengeance. They strip away his indecision and his fear, look at him as if he’s a man grown instead of a boy barely old enough to wage a war. He learns how to fight and rule and kill, spends his days surrounded blood and mud and the acrid stench of death.

Robb watches the ravens fly north, watches them disappear into the horizon carrying words he wishes had never been uttered. He does not want this responsibility. He wants his father alive and his sisters back, wants to go home to Winterfell and see Bran and Rickon. Wants to visit Jon at the Wall.

He hopes his siblings are safe, prays that they forgive him for his transgressions. 

_We’ll see them again_ , he tells his mother. _We’ll get the girls back and go home to Winterfell._

But they both know that it’s something he can’t promise, and it isn’t long before the words taste like ashes in his mouth and he stops saying them entirely.

 

*

 

He sends three ravens up north: one to Winterfell, two to the Wall. He aches to write a fourth, to send one further south to Sansa and Arya, but he knows the message would never reach its destination.

One letter goes to Bran, another to Lord Commander Mormont. Robb’s hand trembles when he writes the third. He makes two attempts – crosses out lines and words that are too revealing, too maudlin – before settling on the only words that really matter:

_I need you here._

 

*

 

The thing is, Robb had asked Jon to stay.

He’d pushed Jon against the trunk of the weirwood with shaking hands, anger and despair heavy in his gut, and pleaded for him not to leave. Had swallowed each of Jon’s objections and explanations with a kiss, had whispered a litany of pleas and promises into Jon’s skin.

But it wasn’t enough to convince him to stay. Robb wonders now if it was ever enough.

 

*

 

Jon doesn’t reply to his letter.

His mother accuses him of being distracted. Tells him he needs to send his peace terms to the Lannisters, encourages him to find an easy end to the war. She doesn’t know he’s written to Jon, and Robb isn’t inclined to tell her. He doesn’t want to endure her disappointment and protests, doesn’t want to have to supply a reason when she questions his actions.

Robb may be selfish, but he’s not stupid. He knows that her words hold some truth. So he tries to forget about it. Focuses on battle plans and war councils and forming alliances. But he still looks to the north sometimes and prays that the gods will answer at least one of his prayers.

 

*

 

It takes two days for Theon to approach him, to lean against the doorframe of Robb’s chamber, staring at him with a look bordering on disapproval. 

“I know you wrote to Snow.” 

“What makes you say that?” Robb asks carefully.

Theon snorts and rolls his eyes. “The only time you ever keep secrets from me are when they’re about Snow,” he says. “You’ve been pining after him like a maiden since he left. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Robb frowns, unsure how to respond. Theon and Jon have never liked each other. Robb’s always tried to do his best to mend the relationship between them, but nothing had ever come of it. He had eventually given up, learned to deal with the fact that they’d always snipe at each other, always trade words that were more angry than amiable.

But he hadn’t realized he’d been so transparent about his feelings. It makes him flush in embarrassment and he avoids Theon’s gaze, choosing to look down at the map on the table instead.

“Is the bastard that important?” Theon asks, and though his voice is soft, the words are tinged with an undercurrent of jealousy that makes Robb uneasy.

“He’s my brother,” Robb says, as if that explains everything.

From the expression on Theon’s face, he thinks it might. 

 

*

 

There’s a commotion at the gates one morning. 

At first he thinks it’s nothing unusual, goes back to planning his attack on the Westerlands, but then Grey Wind lets out a howl that chills him to the bone and takes off running.

And Robb _knows_.

 

*

 

Robb pulls Jon in for a hug, closes his eyes as his brother relaxes in his arms, and any reservations he had about releasing Jon from his vows melt away like the summer snow.

 

*

 

Jon comes to him that night. He lingers in the entrance of Robb’s chambers, showing more hesitance than Robb has ever seen from him. Robb drinks in the sight of him, from the ill-fitting clothes Jon now wears to the wary expression on his face to the way his hair is long enough to curl over the collar of his shirt. 

There’s a heavy, awkward silence that stretches between them and it makes Robb uncomfortable, suddenly aware of how much has changed since he last saw Jon. 

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he finally says. 

Jon looks over at him, surprise clear on his face. “You asked. Of course I came. I couldn’t deny a command from my king.”

There’s something wistful and sad in his tone, and Robb doesn’t miss the way his gaze flicks over to the crown resting on the table. 

“Is that the only reason you came?” he asks. He knows – hopes – it’s not Jon’s only reason for abandoning the Night’s Watch, but he wants to hear Jon confirm it. Wants to know for certain.

“You know it’s not.” Jon gives him a long, searching look, mouth turned down in a frown, the line of his shoulders tense. “Robb, why did you write me?”

Robb wants to say that it’s because he can’t fight this war alone. That he missed Jon and wants him fighting at his side. Wants to tell him that it’s because he thinks Jon took half his heart with him when he rode away from Winterfell that day.

But what he says is, “Because you’re my brother.”

He reaches for Jon then, wraps his fingers around Jon’s wrist and tugs him forward, divests him of his clothing until there’s nothing between them. Jon hesitates briefly, but then he’s returning Robb’s kiss, and adrenaline courses through him, makes him push Jon down on the pile of furs on the floor. Robb slides his fingers over Jon’s skin, traces each new bruise and scar and commits them to memory. He used to know every inch of Jon’s body, but now there are a dozen unfamiliar marks and scrapes. There’s a fading bruise on his ribs, a cut above his eyebrow, a trail of scars on his torso.

Jon flinches when Robb kisses the burn marks on his arm, and though his eyes darken and his breathing grows ragged, he doesn’t offer an explanation when Robb asks about them. Instead, he rolls them over so he can pin Robb down against the floor, his hands like a vise around Robb’s wrists. 

“I almost deserted for you,” he says. His voice is hoarse, his tone desolate, as though he’s been holding the words in for ages. “I left the Wall as soon as I heard the news.”

Robb’s heart aches at the words, aches even more when he realizes what they truly mean. “But you didn’t desert. You went back,” he says softly.

“I did.” Jon’s expression is solemn as he stares down at Robb. “I had vows. You know what happens to deserters of the Night’s Watch.”

Robb sucks in a sharp breath. He makes to sit up, but Jon’s hands tighten around his wrists, keeping him pinned against the furs. Robb glares up at him, annoyed and disappointed and utterly distraught.

“Jon. I wouldn’t….I could never. _You’re my brother._ You belong with me, not freezing to death at the Wall.”

Jon looks conflicted, as if he wants to say something else, and Robb knows that whatever it is will be something he doesn’t want to hear. He doesn’t want Jon to ruin the moment. So Robb surges up to kiss Jon, licks into his mouth and nips at his bottom lip. 

They don’t talk much after that.

 

*

 

His mother isn’t happy about Jon’s presence. She confronts Robb about it the next day, tries to convince him to send Jon back to the Wall.

“He shouldn’t be here,” she says. “He broke his vows.”

“I released him from his vows,” Robb replies. He looks across the courtyard to where Jon is sitting, smiles when their eyes meet. “He should be fighting by my side. Jon has as much of a right as I do to fight in this war and to avenge father’s death.”

She sighs, folding her hands together as she follows his gaze. Her already steely expression hardens even more when Theon joins Jon, and when she speaks, her voice carries a note of warning. “You need to be careful who you keep company with. War changes men. You may find yourself putting your trust in the wrong person.”

“Jon and Theon are _not_ going to betray me,” he snaps. His mother has never been fond of either of them, has always warned him against spending too much time with them. But Robb knows that they would never betray him. Because even though Jon does not share his name and Theon does not share his blood, they’re still his brothers.

“Theon’s pledged his loyalty to you and our cause. Do not test that loyalty by sending him back to Pyke,” she says. “Balon Greyjoy is not someone you should trust. He won’t bend the knee willingly. Sending Theon to treat with him is a mistake.”

It’s an argument they’ve had before, one that Robb isn’t keen on discussing again. He doesn’t want to send one of his oldest friends away, would rather have him here fighting by his side, but he has no other choice. It’s the same reason he’s sending his mother to Bitterbridge even though she’d rather stay in Riverrun or return to Winterfell.

“Theon is the only person who stands a chance of swaying the Ironborn to our cause,” he says. 

“You trust too easily,” she says after a moment, something bitter and resigned in her voice.

“Maybe,” he replies. “But I know Theon won’t betray me, and I trust Jon with my life. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have released him from his vows.”

“And how many men did you send to the Wall in exchange for him? Fifty? A hundred? One boy isn’t worth that many men.”

“I promised men after the war is over. Prisoners of war. Thieves and rapists from the North and the Riverlands. Men who would be sent to the Wall regardless.” He knows it’s a poor excuse as soon as he says it. And from the way his mother purses her lips and looks at him with something akin to disappointment, she knows it as well.

“Jon’s presence won’t make any difference, Robb. His being here won’t win the war for you.” 

“He’s here because I need him with me.”

“Need or want?” she asks sharply.

Robb flushes at the rebuke, turns away so he doesn’t have to look at her and see her knowing gaze. But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. They both know what his answer is anyway.

 

*

 

Robb doesn’t send Jon away. His mother isn’t happy about it, but it’s not her decision to make.

He does keep Theon with him, has him write a letter instead, and sends it off with the hope that the Ironborn will pledge their allegiance. 

Theon doesn’t mention how Robb had promised to send him back to Pyke, how they’d stayed up late one night discussing plans to see it through. But his posture does grow less tense when Robb tells him that he wants Theon beside him, wants him to fight by his side.

“My father owes your family a debt. He’ll answer your call to arms,” Theon says. He claps Robb on the arm, smirks at him in that infuriatingly carefree way. “Until then, I’ll have to be the Ironborn that shows you Northerners how to truly fight.”

Robb watches yet another raven fly north and hopes he’s made the right choice.

 

*

 

The war goes on.

His sisters are still lost to him. Soldiers still fight and die and bleed out onto the ground. 

Sometimes Robb feels as though he’s losing himself the further south he marches. Feels like he’s leaving behind pieces of himself scattered across the North and the Riverlands.

 

*

 

Jon’s presence shouldn’t change things.

But it does.

It’s foolish, he knows, to spend so much time together. With Jon, he’s not a lord or king or soldier. Jon has seen the best and worst of him, knows him almost as well as he knows himself, doesn’t judge him for showing weakness or for being afraid. He’s able to bring Robb out of his dark moods, able to let him be Robb the boy instead of Robb the king.

Jon’s by his side each day and in his bed most nights. Robb had almost forgotten how it felt to wake up to the warmth of Jon curled around him, to the sight of Jon’s sleep mussed curls, to the sound he makes when Robb kisses him awake. He’s missed the feel of Jon’s body under him, the sound of his laugh, the slight smile he wears when he’s amused, the sullen expression he wears when someone teases him.

Jon rides out to battle with him, his direwolf by his side, and Robb thinks, _yes, this is how it was meant to be._

 

*

 

His army is making their way through the Westerlands when he receives word that his mother has secured an alliance with Renly.

Her letter is short: _He wants you to refuse any claim to the Iron Throne. And Sansa is to marry one of the Tyrells._

“I don’t have a choice,” Robb tells Jon later. “Renly’s backed by the Tyrells. The money and men they can provide could turn the tide of the war in our favor. It would be wise to accept his terms.”

“Yes, it would,” Jon says simply.

Robb slumps down beside him on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He leans against Jon, takes comfort in his presence, in the way he wraps an arm around him and cards a hand through his hair soothingly.

Robb may be a king, may have forced himself to choose his duty to his kingdom over his duty to his family, but there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to return home, to have his family back together.

“Am I doing the right thing?” he asks. He hates himself for the uncertainty in his voice, for his need to be reassured. But lately he feels as if all his decisions are being questioned by his men, that they’re starting to see him for the green boy that he is.

“You’ll make the right choice,” Jon says.

It’s a lie, but Robb chooses to believe him anyway.

 

*

 

They win at Oxcross, and his army continues to ravage the Westerlands, winning small battles everywhere they go. His mother writes that Renly intends to lay siege to King’s Landing, that he promises to send men to help Robb after he’s taken the city.

Everything seems to be going well which is, of course, exactly when it all starts to go wrong.

 

*

 

“I thought he was going to kill you,” Robb says. His hand shakes as he reaches out to trace the cut along Jon’s cheek. He glances down at the matching cut across Jon’s arm, blood still seeping through the bandage, and feels his stomach turn. “I....Jon...”

Jon leans into his touch, his expression unusually unguarded. “I’m fine, Robb,” he says gently.

Robb doesn’t have the right words to express how terrified he’d been when he saw Jon fall on the battlefield. How it felt like his heart had stopped, how he’d been filled with such rage and fear. How taking the castle at Ashemark would have been a hollow victory if it had come at the cost of his brother’s life. How he’d never be able to live with himself knowing that Jon was injured while trying to protect him.

There’s still a lingering sense of panic coursing through him, and it must show on his face because when Jon kisses him it’s long and slow and deep. Robb clutches at him, drags him closer until there’s no more space between them, kisses him until he has to pull away to regain his breath. He fumbles with Jon’s clothes, his fingers suddenly clumsy as he tries to push Jon’s breeches over his hips. He strips himself of his own clothes, already half hard as he presses himself against Jon. Jon’s body is a map of bruises and cuts and it makes something painful twist in Robb’s stomach, makes him equal parts angry and sad.

Robb curls a hand around Jon’s cock, and he knows his pace is off, that his strokes are messy and erratic. He ruts against Jon’s hip with the same frenzied pace, sloppy and quick and entirely lacking in skill. But it’s less about finesse, more about the desperate need to reassure himself that Jon is alive.

He’s almost embarrassed by how quickly they both come, how barely any time passes before Jon’s spilling into his hand, before he’s spilling his seed all over Jon’s thigh. Robb half-heartedly reaches for one of their discarded shirts and wipes the mess from his hand and Jon’s thigh. When he’s finished, he crawls back to lie beside Jon, slings an arm over his stomach and rests his head on Jon’s shoulder.

“You should rest,” Robb says, voice wavering slightly. “You almost died today.”

“I’m fine, Robb,” Jon murmurs. He drapes an arm around Robb, tangles his fingers in the soft curls at the nape of Robb’s neck.

Robb lets out a shaky sigh, presses a lazy kiss to Jon’s collarbone, then another on the curve on his neck. “Would you listen if I told you to stop putting yourself in danger?”

“Only if you do the same. I promised to die rather than let you come to harm.”

“Don’t,” he says sharply. He pulls away from Jon, glares down at him with indescribable fury. “Don’t you dare promise me that.”

Jon just stares at him sadly. “You’re my king,” he says quietly. “Thousands of men have promised to die for you. I’m no different from any of them.”

 _You are_ , he wants to say. _Because those men don’t know me. They’re not my brother, my lover, my other half._

But the words, as saccharine as they are, are lost on his tongue.

Robb has never wanted anyone to die for him, and the thought that there are thousands of men who would willingly lay down their lives for him makes him feel sick and anxious. Something in his heart tightens at the thought of _Jon_ dying for him, makes him feel lost and overwhelmed.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to inspire such loyalty. Doesn’t know if he’s even worthy of it.

 

*

 

Robb lies awake long after Jon has fallen into an uneasy sleep. He spends what seems like hours just staring down at his brother, tracing the scars and bruises on his skin, running a hand through his curls. Jon’s no longer in any danger, but Robb can’t seem to calm the frantic beating of his heart, can’t stop himself from reaching out just to make sure Jon’s still beside him.

He knows that his preoccupation with Jon is becoming problematic. Theon’s taken to watching them with suspicious eyes, has muttered enough insinuations that Robb is almost certain that he knows. And he’s not deaf to the rumors that wind their way through the camp, though he suspects that Jon hears more of them than he does. 

_A king can’t have whatever he wants_ , he thinks bitterly. 

His crown has weighed heavy on his head since the moment it was forged. It’s been an unwanted aggravation from the beginning, but lately it’s beginning to feel more like a curse.

Robb wonders what he would choose if he were pressed to make a decision: his duty to his kingdom or his love for his brother. 

It unsettles him when he realizes that he’s unable to come to a decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. The next chapter is partially written so it shouldn't take nearly as long (I hope). Also, changing this to four chapters instead of three because it became a lot longer than I expected. Oops?
> 
> Moving around timelines, rushing some action, and ignoring some details from the books for the sake of plot in this chapter.

 

There is nothing Robb enjoys about being king. Nothing he enjoys about being torn between duty and honor, love and obligation. Sometimes he wishes for the days when his sword was made of wood instead of steel, when he wasn’t responsible for the lives of thousands of men, when the dead didn’t outnumber the living. He yearns for the days when his siblings were safe at Winterfell and he wasn’t constantly plagued by the fear of watching Jon die on the battlefield.

Jon’s injury still haunts him, and he worries that he made the wrong decision when he released Jon from his vows all those months ago. Robb knows that it was a selfish decision, that it was a decision borne of loneliness and fear and desperation. He’d been scared of change, scared of the responsibilities that came from the crown placed on his head. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to share his fears with Jon, and he’d wanted the security of Jon’s presence, wanted him there to remind himself that there was at least one person in the world who loved him unconditionally and didn’t expect anything from him.

Robb knows now that he’d been a fool to believe that things would ever go back to the way they once were. A spiral of guilt washes over him when he thinks back to the conversation he had with his mother, how she’d known even then that Robb had wanted Jon with him for purely selfish reasons. How she had encouraged him to send Jon away, how she’d worried that Jon’s presence would distract him.

 _And she was right_ , Robb thinks. He’s been acting far more like a child than a king, and he let his affection for Jon overshadow the duties he has to his kingdom, the duty he has to his men and his people. What kind of king is he, he wonders, that he places his love for his brother above the love for his people?

He should send Jon away, should send him to protect Bran and Rickon in Winterfell or off as a liaison to Renly’s army. He should let Jon rescue their sisters, let him reunite their family and do what Robb himself cannot.

As his army marches deeper into the Westerlands, Robb tries to convince himself that this is the right course of action. Yet, somehow he can’t bring himself to actually let it happen. It’s petty and stupid and utterly self-indulgent, but he wants Jon beside him, wants to know his brother will be safe, wants to go to him for comfort when the pressures placed upon him become too much for him to handle alone. Wants to kiss him breathless and press bruises into his skin and fuck him until he’s a moaning, squirming mess. Wants to curl around him as they sleep and dream of a future where Jon is always with him. Where his sisters and brothers are safe in Winterfell and Jon acts as his Hand as he rules the North. Because right now, Jon is the one reminder that while he may be fighting for all of the North, he’s also fighting for his family.

Once again, he finds himself torn between love and honor, and he knows deep in his heart that he can’t continue on this way. So he tries to distance himself from Jon instead, hopes that putting space between them will allow him to focus on the war and not on a future that may never come to pass. Robb stops seeking him out at night, stops asking for his counsel or sharing meals with him. He keeps company with his other friends and bannermen and tries to ignore the way Jon becomes increasingly more sullen as the days pass. Tries to ignore the heartache and the pain that deepens the longer he stays away from his brother.

 

*

 

A raven comes the day before his army plans to invade the Crag.

_Renly is dead. Stannis has taken King’s Landing._

Robb crumples the note in his fist and makes a low noise of frustration. There’s no word about his sisters. No word about the fate of the Tyrells or the Lannisters. He hasn’t heard from his mother in weeks, and Balon Greyjoy still hasn’t answered his request for aid.

His first instinct is to go to Jon, but he’s barely spoken more than a few words to his brother in almost a week. Jon hasn’t sought him out either, has just stared after him with a weary, resigned expression.

Robb suddenly feels as though he’s been making one bad decision after another.

 

*

 

They invade the Crag anyway.

He’s told that taking the castle won’t be any trouble, but Robb barely makes it through the main gate before he feels a sharp pain in his shoulder followed by another in his side. His vision starts to blur and fade, and the last thing he hears is Grey Wind howling and Jon shouting his name.

 

*

 

He wakes in an unfamiliar bed.

Robb’s entire body hurts and there’s a dull, aching pain in his shoulder. He shifts in the bed, blinking blearily as he takes in his surroundings. He relaxes when he sees Jon sitting on a chair next to the bed, his sword positioned across his lap, and his head resting in his hands. Ghost and Grey Wind are lying entwined near his feet, Ghost’s head resting on top of Grey Wind’s neck.

He tries to move again, but stops when a searing pain shoots up his shoulder, making him cry out in pain. The noise makes Jon start, and he looks up at Robb with wide, worried eyes, his face pale and tired.

There’s a stretch of silence and then, his voice eerily calm, Jon says, “Don’t do that again.”

Robb frowns. “What happened?”

Jon ignores him, but the way his mouth tightens in disapproval and the ferocity in which he grips the pommel of his sword tells Robb more than his words ever could. Whatever happened has left Jon shaken, and he’s skittish enough that he can barely meet Robb’s eyes. Robb reaches out to grab his hand, entwining their fingers out of habit. Jon absently rubs the skin on the inside of Robb’s wrist, the touch gentle and soft enough that Robb shivers.

“You’ve been avoiding me since Ashemark. I didn’t understand why at first, but I think I do now,” Jon says after a long moment, looking down at their hands. His gaze darts up to search Robb’s face, his expression unreadable. “I won’t watch you die either.”

He rises then, untangles his hand from Robb and stalks out the door without even a backward glance. Robb watches him go, something bitter and heavy unfurling in his chest.

 

*

 

He doesn’t see much of Jon over the next few days, save for a brief minute when Jon informs him that there haven’t been any ravens from King’s Landing.

Jon’s absence doesn’t really surprise him. He’s always preferred to lick his wounds in private, used to hide out for days when they were younger until Robb came to drag him out of his funk. Robb leaves him to his moods without comment, because after all, what right does Robb have to be angry when he’s the one who pushed Jon away in the first place?

It doesn’t stop him from brooding about it, however. And it certainly doesn’t stop Theon from commenting on it the next time he visits Robb’s temporary chambers.

“Snow’s been moping more than normal,” he says, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “Did you finally tire of having him warm your bed?”

He glances at Theon sharply, a tingle of fear coursing through him. He and Jon tried their best to keep their relationship a secret, and even though Robb suspected that Theon knew, he never thought he’d comment on it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, careful to keep his tone light.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your little romance,” he says. There’s something in his tone that makes Robb uncomfortable, something that makes his pulse quicken with worry. 

“Though I suggest you find a girl to fuck before people start to talk.”

Robb scowls, annoyed at the underlying implication in Theon’s words. For all that he’s pushed Jon away for the time being, he doesn’t want to find a girl. He’s about to say as much when there’s a knock on the door, followed by the sound of muffled voices. Theon crosses the room to open the door, nodding at the guards outside as he lets in a girl carrying an armful of ointment and bandages.

“Speaking of girls, this one seems as good as any,” Theon says, grinning.

“Don’t,” Robb says, a note of warning in his voice. He doesn’t miss the way Theon gazes at the girl, the way his eyes darken with lust. Jeyne Westerling is a pretty girl, gentle and sweet and genuinely distressed over Robb’s injury. She’s done her best to soothe his pain and bandage his wounds, and Robb’s grown fond of her. He doesn’t want Theon to frighten her off.

“Was I interrupting something?” she asks softly, looking between them.

“No,” Robb says, smiling at her in a way that makes her blush. 

The blush doesn’t fade from her face as she sits by his side on the bed. Her long hair brushes against his skin as she leans over him, her hands soft when she peels the bandages away from his wounds. Robb shivers when her fingers ghost across the half-healed cut on his side, when she spreads a thin layer of salve across his skin. She doesn’t speak as she moves to do the same for his shoulder, just looks up at him with a shy smile before dabbing a spot of ointment on his shoulder.

For one brief, fleeting moment, Robb wonders what would happen if he leaned in and kissed her. Her lips are pale and plump and he imagines how they’d look swollen from his kisses, wonders how she would feel in his arms, how she would feel beneath him. The thought makes his gaze wander, and he catches himself staring at the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips.

It isn’t until his cock begins to harden that he realizes what he’s doing, and he flushes what he’s sure is an alarming shade of red as he tears his eyes away from Jeyne. He dares to glance over at Theon and finds his friend looking at him with undisguised amusement.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to tire of Snow,” he says smugly. “Had I known it would only take a pair of pretty teats, I would have found you a girl sooner.”

“What I do is none of your business, Theon,” he snaps. It comes out harsher than he intends, no doubt caused by his embarrassment, and it makes the grin on Theon’s face slide into a scowl.

“I’ll leave you to it then, your grace,” he says stiffly. He crosses the room in two long strides, disappears out the door before Robb can even think to call him back.

Robb sighs and closes his eyes as he leans his head back against the wall, wondering why he’s suddenly cursed with driving away all those closest to him.

 

*

 

Jeyne is with him the next time he sees Jon. He’s telling her about Sansa and Arya, pleased by the way she laughs as he describes his sisters’ endless rivalry. He doesn’t realize Jon is standing in the doorway until he clears his throat.

“Updates from the Greatjon,” he says sourly, handing Robb a crumpled piece of parchment. He smiles briefly at Jeyne before turning his gaze back on Robb. The lines of his face are tense, and his expression wars between hesitance and annoyance. There’s a flicker of jealousy when he looks at Jeyne, a reemergence of that same resigned look he wore once Robb started pulling away.

Robb hates that he’s the reason for that look, but he’s still convinced that this self-imposed distance from Jon is for the best. Jon clouds his thinking, makes him irrational and obsessive and unable to focus on anything else. He doesn’t like it, but he knows it’s necessary.

He knows Jon doesn’t like it either, and sometimes he wonders how much Jon must despise him. Wonders if he hates Robb for making him attend his every beck and call, for asking him to leave the Night’s Watch to fight by his side only to be shoved away again. They haven’t talked about it, and Robb makes himself a promise to force a conversation with Jon. Neither of them will want to hear it, but they can’t go on pretending like nothing is wrong.

“Will you come by later?” he asks suddenly. He feels the blush creep up his neck when he realizes how ridiculous he sounds, ignores Jon’s surprised look and Jeyne’s confused one.

“Is that an order or a request?” Jon asks. 

Jon’s tone startles him. He hasn’t spoken to him in such a manner for a very long time – since they were in Winterfell together, in fact. But his surprise quickly fades into annoyance.

“It _was_ a request,” Robb says, “but now it’s an order.”

“Fine,” Jon snaps. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he crosses his arms and stares at Robb coolly. As he turns to leave, he looks between Jeyne and Robb again and something in his expression closes off even more.

“I hope you remember you’re engaged to one of the Frey girls, your grace,” he says. He doesn’t wait for a reply, doesn’t even wait to see Robb’s reaction before he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

Normally, Robb would call Jon back, would tell him to stop being a brat and running off to brood. But Jon’s words have made something numb rush through his veins. Jon has never once called him by any honorific, has always called him by his name. It stings to hear him use a title now.

“Is everything alright?” Jeyne asks, placing a hand on his arm. She bites at her bottom lip as she looks up at him in concern. It’d be so easy to let himself fall into her arms, to let her kindness wash over him, but he knows that it wouldn’t be fair to her. Wouldn’t be fair for him to kiss her while thinking of his brother.

“Yes,” Robb says. It’s a lie, meant to reassure her, but Robb doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he’s suddenly wondering when everything in his life started going wrong.

 

*

 

Three letters arrive a couple days later: two from King’s Landing, one from Riverrun. Jeyne is the only one with him, had stayed to keep him company after changing his bandages. She’s a warm presence in the room, listens to him when he talks about his siblings and the North, smiles when he eagerly reaches for the letter from Sansa.

Robb unfolds the letter slowly, and something sad and painful curls around his heart when he sees his name written in Sansa’s hand. He stares at it for a second or two before folding it with a wistful sigh, tucking it away for later. For all that Jeyne is a sweet girl – one that reminds him far too much of Sansa – Sansa’s letter is something better read in private.

She seems to understand his unspoken hint and begins gathering her things as he briefly glances over the letter from Stannis. It’s short and terse, full of demands that Robb concede his crown.

He feels his heart stop when he opens the third letter. His hands shake as he holds the parchment in his hands, as he reads words that are worse than any wound from the battlefield:

_The Ironborn have attacked the North and taken Winterfell. Bran and Rickon are missing._

 

*

 

Theon’s face is white with shock when he hears, his customary leer gone as he promises that he knew nothing about his father’s plans. Jon says nothing, just clenches his hand into a fist and stares out the window, his face lined with grief. Robb wants to scream and cry and rage against the gods, but there are letters that need to be sent and decisions to be made. It isn’t until later, once the room has cleared, that he allows himself to fall against Jon, to bury his face in his brother’s neck and let the tears come.

“They were only children,” he says, and Robb hates himself for not being there, for not being able to protect them. There’s a lot he hates himself for, a lot of actions he regrets, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for this. “Do you think they’re still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, voice tight with restrained emotion. “I hope so.”

Robb pulls him closer, ignores the stinging pain in his shoulder and side as he tangles himself in Jon’s arms. He doesn’t want to be a king right now, just wants to mourn his brothers without fearing the judgment of his men. He doesn’t want to pretend to be strong.

Whatever resentment and uncertainty that was between him and Jon only hours earlier has evaporated. Robb curses himself for ever thinking that it was a good idea to distance himself from Jon. Consequences be damned, he’ll keep his brother by his side even if it means forsaking the duties of his crown. He’s already lost the rest of his family. He won’t lose Jon as well.

 _I should have never pushed you away_ , he wants to say. _You’re my brother, the only brother I have left. I’msorryI’msorryI’msososorrydon’teverleaveme._

But when he tries to say the words, all that comes out is a muffled sob. Jon tightens his arms around Robb, buries his face in Robb’s hair, strokes a soothing hand down the length of Robb’s back. “I know,” he murmurs. “Robb, I know.”

Jon stays with him that night, winds his arms around him and shares his grief and tears.

 

*

 

He leaves the Westerlands two days later. His wounds are still only half-healed and he feels unsteady as he rides through the castle gates. By the time they make camp for the night, his skin is clammy and pale, and he’s all but gasping for breath. He strips most of his clothing off, curls up on his makeshift bed, and presses his face into the furs, regretting his decision to leave the Crag.

Jon finds him like that, sits down beside Robb and gently brushes his damp curls away from his face.

“Idiot,” he says fondly. “You’re going to push yourself into an early grave if you keep this up.”

Robb grunts in response, and then whines in protest when he feels Jon rise and leave the tent. He comes back a moment later with a basin of water and armful of bandages, rolls his eyes at Robb’s expression.

He hands the basin of water to Robb, who gratefully accepts it and splashes some on his face. He feels remarkably better afterward and he sits back against the pile of furs, watching as Jon fumbles with the bandages and bottles and jars of creams and ointments.

Jon’s hands are surprisingly gentle as he peels the bandages away from Robb’s body, and he frowns when he traces the cuts on Robb’s stomach and shoulder. When he’s done dressing the wounds, he wraps the bandage around Robb’s waist, fingers skimming along the lines of his stomach. It’s a strange parallel to the way Jeyne dressed his wounds, and Jon’s next words confirm that he’s evidently thinking the same thing.

“I’m not as pretty as your last nursemaid,” Jon says roughly, eyes flicking up to study Robb’s face. There’s the beginning of a blush on his cheeks, and it’s both startling and endearing. For the first time since he heard about Stannis taking King’s Landing, Robb feels something loosen in his chest. _What would I have done without you here_ , he thinks, reaching out to run a hand along Jon’s jaw.

“I beg to differ,” Robb says. He cups Jon’s face in his hand and smiles at him softly, rubbing his thumb over the stubble on Jon’s jawline. “In a different life, I might have loved her. But she’s not the one I want beside me.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but leans into his touch all the same. “You’re a sap,” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up into a smile.

Robb stares at him for a second or two, letting his gaze dance across the lines of Jon’s face. “I am sorry, you know. About…well, everything. I was being stupid.”

“You were,” Jon agrees. He sets down the cream and ointment and then turns back to Robb with a small frown. “Are we okay?”

Robb doesn’t reply, just wraps a hand around Jon’s arm and pulls him in for a kiss. Jon sighs and relaxes, curling a hand around Robb’s waist and dragging him in closer. Robb bites down on Jon’s bottom lip, smiles when it makes Jon let out a whimper.

“It was a mistake to stop this,” Robb says, mouthing at the skin on Jon’s jaw. He sucks it until it’s wet and red, nips at the mark until it makes Jon squirm in arousal. “Having you around kept distracting me. Made me realize that I’d do anything to keep you safe, that I’d choose you every time.”

He lets out a shuddering sigh and leans his forehead against Jon’s. “I don’t want to let you go again,” he says. “Promise me, Jon.”

Jon kisses him then, sweet and desperate and hungry. He pushes Robb back against the furs, reaches over to pick up one of the bottles he brought in with him. He drizzles the oil onto his hands slowly, sends a half-hearted glare at Robb when he tries to push himself up on his forearms.

“Lie down,” he says.

Robb begins to protest, but his words break off in a gasp when Jon gently pushes him back down and traces a finger around his hole. He slides in one finger, then adds a second, keeping his eyes on Robb’s face as Robb whines and bucks beneath him. Robb’s cock is already hard and red against his stomach, and he pushes down against Jon’s fingers, silently urging him to move faster. It’s been so long since they last had sex – and even longer since Jon was the one to initiate it – that he doesn’t want to wait.

His body feels tight with desire and his skin is slick with sweat by the time Jon removes his fingers. Jon taps Robb’s hip gently, motioning for him to move further up the bed. Robb attempts to raise himself on his hands and knees, but winces at the pressure it puts on his shoulder. His wounds have almost healed, but too much movement still makes them tender.

“No, not like that,” Jon says suddenly.

Robb feels Jon behind him, jerks in surprise when Jon curls an arm around his middle and gently pulls him back to lean against his chest. He feels Jon’s cock nudging at his entrance, and the feel of it makes his own harden in response. He raises himself up without prompting, bites back a sigh when he finally sinks down on Jon’s cock.

He stays there for a moment, reveling in the feel of Jon inside him again, before moving, grinding his hips down against Jon. It’s a position they’ve only used once before and it takes them a moment to set a steady rhythm. But when they do, Jon thrusts up into him with a bruising intensity that makes Robb want to howl, not caring who’s around to hear. 

For all that he’s being mindful of Robb’s injuries, Jon’s uncharacteristically rough as he fucks him. He practically growls as he buries his face against Robb’s collarbone, licking and nipping at the skin there. He scrapes his teeth along Robb’s neck and the gesture is so possessive, so utterly animalistic that Robb is unable to hold back his whimper.

Jon’s arm is tight around his stomach, holding him secure against the taut muscles of his chest. Robb rolls his head back against Jon’s shoulder, noses at his jaw, his breath coming out in a series of small, desperate pants.

Jon leans down to kiss him, moving the hand he has braced around Robb’s middle to stroke Robb’s cock. Robb arches against him, thrusting his cock against Jon’s hand frantically. The friction of his own thrusts against Jon’s slow, rough strokes makes him quiver and whine. He rolls his hips again as he fucks himself on Jon’s cock, squirms with desperate, wanton need as he tries to reach his release. 

Robb lets out a low groan when Jon twists his hips, hitting that spot inside Robb that makes his entire body shudder and his vision go blurry. He gasps Jon’s name when it happens again, seeks out his lips and kisses him wet and messy as he spills over Jon’s hand and his stomach. Jon follows him a few moments later, and he buries his face in the back of Robb’s neck as he spends, kissing the sweat-slicked skin at the base of Robb’s neck. 

It’s intimate and possessive, and it makes Robb relax in the comfort of his brother's arms. For the first time in a long while, he finally feels like things might be alright.

 

*

 

His mother is waiting for him when he finally returns to Riverrun. Jon avoids her as they enter the courtyard, takes his horse and his direwolf and heads off in the opposite direction. 

“You’ve done well,” his mother says, looking him over with a relieved expression before she draws him in for a tight hug. “Your father would be proud.”

Robb sighs. “Not well enough. I may have won every battle, but I lost Winterfell.” He pauses, looks at his mother with hope stirring in his chest. “Have Bran and Rickon been found? Have you received more news?” 

She purses her lips, her features becoming tight and weary. “No,” she says softly. 

“We’ll find them. If Balon Greyjoy hasn’t murdered them, we’ll find them and take our revenge.” He places a hand on her arm, tries to offer her the same comfort she’s always offered him. “With Stannis on the throne now, the war is all but over. We can go home soon.”

It’s something he’s dreamed about for days now. He has yet to decide what to do about Stannis, has yet to discuss it with his bannermen. His injury and recovery prevented him from making any definite decisions, but now that he’s back in Riverrun, he doesn’t want to waste any time. He wants to find Arya, negotiate for the return of Sansa, and find his younger brothers. Wants to end this war and go back north where he belongs.

His bannermen are tired and homesick. _He_ is tired and homesick.

But his mother shakes her head and looks at him with pity in her eyes. “The war is not over yet,” she says. She glances away, a hard glint in her eyes, her posture defensive.

It’s at that moment that Robb notices the green and gold Tyrell banners spread across Riverrun’s courtyard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seriously considering changing the summary of this story to: "Jon and Robb make bad decisions and decide that the perfect time to have a lovers spat is in the middle of the war."
> 
> Apparently I can't decide on the number of chapters this will have since it was originally supposed to be three, and was then pushed to four, and will now probably be five?

 

 

A feast is planned the day after his return to Riverrun.

“To celebrate my victories and good fortune and our new alliance with the Tyrells,” Robb says, repeating the words his mother said earlier. He scrunches his nose in distaste as he tips his head back to stare up at Jon. They’re in Robb’s temporary chambers, taking advantage of a rare moment of silence. “The men will enjoy the feast. It’s been far too long since they had a proper meal.”

Jon makes a low, wordless murmur of agreement, one hand slowly carding through Robb’s curls. Robb’s shoulder still aches from his wound at the Crag, and he’d bullied Jon into letting him rest in his lap earlier, had claimed that it was the best position for him to relieve the tension in his shoulder. Jon had rolled his eyes, but complied without a word, had draped his arms around Robb the moment he had settled.

They’ve been like this for a few hours now, long enough that Robb is so relaxed that he’s loathe to move from the room. He’ll never admit how much he enjoys moments like this, how sometimes he wants nothing more than to spend the day cuddled up next to Jon.

He reaches for Jon’s other hand, tangles their fingers together and raises their entwined hands so he can press a light kiss against Jon’s skin. He ignores Jon’s amused huff of laughter just as he ignores the way Jon teases him for making such a gesture. Instead, he turns his head to look at where their direwolves are curled together on the floor near the bed, Grey Wind’s head resting on Ghost’s flank. He smiles at the sight, faintly amused at the way the wolves almost always cuddle together in a manner similar to him and Jon.

The utter domesticity of the moment makes something warm and content pool in his stomach, and for a moment he can almost pretend that they’re back in Winterfell. That they’re back in his chambers, stealing a moment together before one of their siblings come looking for either of them. Robb misses the days when he and Jon could take their time together, when they could spend an entire morning trading lazy kisses and soft touches. When they didn't have a war to worry about.

Robb should be grateful for the time they do have together now, should be grateful that they can get away with spending even one night together. He doesn’t like the idea of keeping his relationship with Jon a secret, but he understands why it needs to be done. At least, he thinks, people aren’t as likely to question Jon’s presence anymore.

“I want you to sit at the high table with me tonight,” he says sleepily. “Mother says the Tyrells should be up there with me as well, but I want you there too.”

There’s a split second where Jon’s hand stops stroking his hair, and Robb whines in protest. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jon says slowly. Robb doesn’t need to see his face to know that he has the beginning of a frown on his face. “Your mother won’t like it. And your bannermen and the Tyrells may take it as an insult.”

Robb squirms out of Jon’s grip, rolling over onto his stomach so he can push himself up on one arm. He leans in close to Jon, gives him a short, firm kiss and brings a hand up to cup the side of his face. 

“They’ll have to deal with it,” he says, stroking Jon’s cheekbone. He watches as Jon’s eyelashes flutter, as he bites down on his bottom lip in hesitation. “You’ve proved yourself on the battlefield, so they should have no issue if I keep you by my side. They’ll just have to get used to the idea that you’re not going anywhere. You may be the only brother I have left. I’ll not cast you aside now.”

Something in Jon’s expression looks pained, but before Robb can question him, Jon wraps a hand around Robb’s neck and drags him in for a deeper, longer kiss. Robb chooses to take the kiss as a sign of agreement.

 

*

 

The feast is loud and lively, full of food and wine from the Riverlands and the North and the Reach. Robb ignores the disapproving look his mother sends him when she sees Jon, ignores the way Theon rolls his eyes and mutters something unkind under his breath. No one else seems to pay any mind, too distracted by the array of food and wine before them. Jon sits beside him, lightly kicking at Robb’s foot whenever Robb steals a piece of food from his plate, and smiling, small and pleased, whenever their legs press together underneath the table.

Robb spends the better part of the evening trading japes with his men, complimenting their prowess on the battlefield, thanking them again for their loyalty. He talks with his men the way his father used to during feasts, tries to make sure he spends enough time with each house, that he says the right things and conveys the right amount of gratitude. 

“You’re quite popular among your men,” Lady Olenna says later, when Robb goes to pay his respects to the Tyrells. 

“My father used to tell me to know the men who followed me. He said that no man wanted to die for a stranger,” he says. It’s the first time he’s truly spoken with them and he does his best not to fidget as he stands before the Queen of Thorns. There’s a sharpness about her gaze that makes him wary, and he remembers his mother’s warning to treat the Tyrells with caution.

“Smart,” she says, nodding in approval.

Beside her, Margaery Tyrell watches him with interest while her brother Loras sits off to the side, looking down at his plate sullenly.

“You’re very kind to welcome us with such a feast,” Margaery says. She looks at him with the same sharp gaze her grandmother has, and something about it makes his stomach flutter nervously. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Riverlands, but I never expected to do so quite so soon.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, my lady,” Robb says. “My mother tells me Renly died bravely.”

Margaery smiles gently, and Robb doesn’t miss the way her gaze flicks over to her brother, the way her expression momentarily changes to something sad and wistful. When she answers him, her voice is soft and fond, “My brother and I both miss Renly. He was a good man. He would have liked you, I think. You seem to share the same ideals.”

“I’m sure I would have liked him as well,” he says. The words feel false and heavy on his tongue, feels like he’s admitting to something he doesn’t quite believe. The feeling must show on his face, because Margaery’s lips curve up as though she’s trying to hold back a smile.

Robb tries to fight the blush he knows is spreading across his cheeks. Margaery is beautiful – perhaps more so than any other woman he’s met – and though she’s the same age as him, he suddenly feels like he’s a young boy again, nervous and timid and full of awkward, hesitant comments.

“I must thank you again for lending your support to my campaign,” he says, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Please tell your lord father that he has my gratitude.”

“As though he had anything to do with it,” Lady Olenna snaps, looking decidedly annoyed. 

“My father has not yet made his way to the Riverlands yet,” Margaery says, before Robb can so much as respond. “But my grandmother and I would like to request an audience tomorrow. We have much to discuss if we’re truly to be allies.”

“Of course,” Robb says. 

There’s a sense of foreboding that curls through him as he makes his way back to the table. Jon sends him a questioning look when he sits down, but Robb ignores him, reaching for a glass of wine. There’s something about this new alliance that worries him, and he wants to ask the Tyrells what they expect from him, what they want in exchange for their allegiance. 

He worries that they’ll ask for too much, that their allegiance rests on things that aren’t Robb’s to give.

 

*

 

Later, after the feast has wound down and everyone’s gone their separate ways, Robb slings an arm over Jon’s shoulder and drags him out of the hall. He’s had enough wine that he feels light-headed and loose-limbed, and he leans into Jon as they stumble back to Robb’s chambers. Jon’s cheeks are flushed from the wine, his body relaxed and pliant, his expression happy. He laughs when Robb buries his face in the curve of his neck, when he presses his lips against Jon’s skin.

“Wait until we’re inside,” Jon says, his voice more amused than annoyed.

Robb slips his arms around Jon’s waist as Jon fumbles for the door, nips at the skin peeking out from underneath the collar of Jon’s shirt. “Hurry up, Snow, or I’ll ravish you here in the hallway.”

“You’re so impatient,” Jon replies. He untangles himself from Robb when he gets the door open, and they both stagger inside, Jon making sure to shut and lock the door behind them. “You’re going to get us into trouble one day.”

“You can’t talk to your king like that,” Robb says. He curls his fingers in the collar of Jon’s shirt, uses that advantage to roughly push Jon up against the door. 

“You’re not being very kingly right now,” Jon says. His voice is deep and husky, and there’s a faint note of teasing underneath it all that makes Robb want to kiss him senseless. 

“Shut up, Snow,” he murmurs. Robb slides a knee between Jon’s legs so he can press up close against him. He braces one hand on Jon’s hip, winds the other around his neck so he can guide Jon into a kiss. Jon tastes of honey and peaches and Dornish red wine, smells of smoke and the oil used when he got his hair cut earlier. His fingers seek out Jon’s shortened curls, and he rakes his fingers through them, grinning against Jon’s mouth when he moans into the kiss.

Robb draws out the kiss, turns it messy and dirty and desperate until Jon’s hands are clutching at him, looping around the small of his back in an effort to pull him closer. 

“Bed?” Jon asks, voice hoarse. 

Robb shakes his head. “Too far.”

Jon’s laughter is swallowed by a kiss when Robb leans in again, nipping at his bottom lip. Robb slips his hands underneath Jon’s shirt, scrapes his nails down Jon’s back in a way that makes Jon groan and buck into Robb’s touch. 

“Tease,” he mumbles, mouthing at the skin on Robb’s neck. He scrapes his teeth across the column of Robb’s throat in retaliation, sucks a mark into the curve of his collarbone. 

Robb whines deep in his throat. His cock is heavy and hard within the confines of his breeches and he rubs up against Jon’s leg, desperate for some form of friction. His fingers fumble with the ties of Jon’s breeches, and he curses when it takes him a moment too long to get them undone. He pushes them down Jon’s hips without any finesse, pausing only to skim his fingers over Jon’s hips. There are fading bruises there, and Robb pokes at them gently, looking up at Jon with interest when he shudders.

Robb lowers himself to his knees, drags Jon’s breeches even further down until they pool near his ankles. He places a kiss on each bruise lining Jon’s thighs, lets his fingers trail across the sensitive skin of his hips and inner thighs. Jon’s breath hitches when Robb fondles his balls, when he moves to kiss the head of his cock and lick away the precome already forming there. 

“You don’t have to,” Jon starts, but Robb send a glare upwards, which has the intended effect of making Jon fall silent.

“I want to,” Robb says. He grabs the base of Jon’s cock and gives him a few quick, rough strokes. “I spent the entire night thinking of doing this. It’s the only thing that got me through the feast.”

He wraps his lips around Jon’s cock, hollows his cheeks as he licks and sucks. He runs his tongue along the underside of Jon’s cock and it makes Jon buck his hips slightly, makes him groan and reach down to bury his fingers in Robb’s hair, pulling on his curls in encouragement. Robb glances up at his brother from beneath his lashes and holds his gaze, feels his own cock stir and harden as he watches Jon come undone. He wants to keep his pace deliberately slow, to tease Jon until he’s needy and on the verge of begging. 

He pulls away, moves his hand from the base of Jon’s cock to trail upwards, fingers applying a slight enough pressure that Jon gasps and thrusts his hips forward. 

“You like when I do this, don’t you?” he asks. He cups Jon’s balls again, rolls them gently in his hand.

“Course I do,” Jon says, voice strained.

“I think you’d like it even more if I was wearing my crown right now,” he says. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Robb knows that he’d never say such things without the wine flowing through him. Knows that he’d be too embarrassed to speak of such desires, even to Jon. But there’s none of that shame now, not when Jon’s eyes go dark and his face is painted with such wanton desire. 

Robb smiles and takes him into his mouth again, scrapes his teeth oh-so-gently against Jon’s cock because he knows his brother gets off on the pain, knows him well enough to expect the way the muscle in his legs start to twitch and tremble. Jon tugs on his hair harder, lets out a low growl urging him to hurry up. It makes something in Robb’s stomach tighten with arousal, makes him want Jon to bend him over the desk or the bed and fuck Robb hard and rough and fast. The thought makes him moan, his own cock almost painfully hard within his breeches. 

Robb knows he’s _so_ close to release – knows that Jon is even closer - so he pulls back slightly, presses his tongue against the slit of Jon’s cock in a way that makes Jon suck in a sharp breath before he spills in Robb’s mouth. Robb continues licking at his cock even after Jon’s spent, until Jon weakly tells him to stop, pulling on his hair _hard_.

The action sends a curl of such intense lust through him, and before he knows it, he’s letting out a whine as he comes in his breeches.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Jon says, blinking down at him with bewilderment and amusement. His legs shake with exertion and he slumps against the door, sliding down to flop onto the floor next to Robb.

Robb immediately curls into him, draping one leg over both of Jon’s. He drops his forehead against Jon’s shoulder and places a soft kiss there, murmuring happily when Jon winds an arm loosely around him, his fingers resting possessively on his hip.

They stay like that for awhile, and for a moment, Robb allows himself to forget that there’s a war raging on outside. That tomorrow he’ll have to return to war and politics, alliances and negotiations.

 

*

 

Robb wakes the next morning to find Jon sprawled on top of him, Jon’s head nestled under Robb’s chin, his hair soft where it brushes against Robb’s skin. He feels a headache forming from the wine he drank the previous night and he curses his indulgence as he closes his eyes and leans back against the furs. There’s a breeze coming in through the open window of his chambers, and he can hear the castle’s inhabitants going about their day.

 _Damn the war_ , he thinks. _I’d be happy to stay here forever._

It’s not an unusual thought, and it’s one that’s been more frequent ever since Jon was injured at Ashemark. It’s dangerous and foolish and reckless, something that could cause his allies to turn their cloaks and his men refuse to fight. He and Jon have always known that they were playing a dangerous game. Even when they were boys back in Winterfell, they were aware that no one would approve of their relationship. Now that he’s king - now that they’re at war - they both know that it’s twice as foolish to continue seeing each other.

But Robb has tried to part with Jon before, had watched him leave, snowflakes swirling around him as he rode through the gates of Winterfell. He’d given him up once. He doesn’t want to do it again.

 

*

 

He receives three ravens that afternoon, two from the North, one from King’s Landing. The first letter is from the Wall, talks of wights and wildlings, requests more aid and any men he can spare. 

Stannis’s letter is as terse and short as ever, calling him a traitor and accusing him of treason. He wants to keep Sansa as a ward, and Robb has to hold back the snarl that threatened to escape when he reads the words.

The last letter is worse than the other two combined:

_The Ironborn are pillaging White Harbor and Bear Island. Winterfell is still under their command._

Something dark and angry twists around his heart at the thought of the North being under attack. Robb reads each letter again and again until the words bleed together and a plan starts forming in his mind.

 

*

 

Robb calls together his bannermen so he can explain his decision to mark back north, to take Winterfell back from the Ironborn and sort out the problem at the Wall. The northern lords are quick to agree, eager to return to defend their homes and families.

“And what of our lands?” his uncle Edmure asks, a faint hint of annoyance in his tone. “You can’t expect us to leave them undefended while we march north.”

“Don’t speak to your king that way,” the Blackfish snaps, cuffing Edmure on the head. If anything, it makes Edmure’s scowl grow deeper as he slumps back in his chair, looking unhappy. “He hasn’t led us wrong yet. You should show more faith in his decisions.”

“I’ll allow enough men to stay behind to defend their castles and lands,” Robb says. “But I require a portion of your houses to follow me to the North.”

It’s a reasonable request, Robb thinks, and he’s relieved when it’s met with approval. He dismisses the council, and goes in search of his mother to inform her of his plans. He finds her leaving the sept, her expression resigned and worried and tired. She’s spent more time than usual in the sept, and Robb wonders how often she’s been praying to her gods. Wonders if they’re more apt to listen to her pleas that the old gods are to his.

“My men are preparing to march back north,” he says. He clenches the letters he received earlier in his hand, tries not to think of what he’ll find when he returns to Winterfell. “I refuse to sit here will the Ironborn burn our home.”

“I take it your bannermen all approve of the plan? You wouldn’t be telling me otherwise.”

He nods, takes a step forward and then falls back, unsure of what to say next. “The Tyrells want to speak to me this afternoon,” he finally says. “They’ve not said anything about their demands yet.”

It’s the closest he’ll come to admitting that the Tyrells make him nervous. They’re cunning and smart and more politically savvy than anyone else he knows. Robb doesn’t know what to expect from them.

“They mean you no harm,” his mother says, as though she can sense his fears. “They’re here to honor the alliance we made with Renly.”

Robb knows she doesn’t trust them. Robb isn’t inclined to either, but he’s not about to turn away their help, not when the Stormlands have already declared their allegiance to Stannis. The Reach could have easily bent the knee to Stannis, but they came to his aid instead. Robb knows that his mother has already discussed terms with the Tyrells, that they’re waiting for him to listen to their demands and agree to their conditions. 

He hopes, if anything, that they did not come to support him in the hopes that he’d challenge Stannis for the Iron Throne. The last thing Robb wants is more bloodshed, but he knows that even if Stannis were to agree to his peace terms, he’d still need the Tyrells behind him to fight the Ironborn. His army is strong and fierce and skilled, but their numbers are no match for any of the combined threats they’d be up against.

For all that Robb doesn’t want to be king, he has no intention of giving up his crown. His men crowned him king, made him a symbol of northern independence, and Robb will not destroy their hopes by bending the knee.

When he tells his mother as much, she looks at him with a sad smile, her face a mixture of grief and pride. “Stannis is as stubborn as his brothers. He will not agree to anything as long as you have a crown.”

“My men want a free and independent kingdom,” Robb says. “They’ve followed me to war and fought by my side. I owe them that.”

“And your sisters? Your brothers? What do you owe them?” she asks. Her tone is bitter and weary, and it makes Robb feel awash with guilt and shame. He still hasn’t forgiven himself for not rescuing his sisters, for not being in Winterfell to protect his brothers.

“Stannis must be more reasonable than the Lannisters. Perhaps he’d be more agreeable to returning Sansa. My army is twice the size of his with the Tyrells behind me. He can’t ignore that,” he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “As for Arya....I have no idea where she is. I don’t want to think she’s dead, but we’ve heard no word about her for months. I don’t even know where to begin looking.”

“And Bran and Rickon?”

Robb doesn’t reply immediately. He’s had a plan half-formed in his mind since he received the note about the attack on Winterfell, and he turns the words over carefully in his mind. He has very few options, and he still doesn’t know whether his younger brothers are dead or have been taken hostage. 

“I was thinking of sending Theon to negotiate with his father for Bran and Rickon,” he says. “I’m hoping they’re alive. Even the Ironborn can’t be so cruel that they’d kill innocent children.”

“Balon Greyjoy would kill anyone standing in his way. Even children,” she says. “Sending Theon to him now is as much as a mistake as sending him as an envoy would have been.”

“If I had sent him before, maybe his father wouldn’t have attacked Winterfell!” he snaps. The thought’s been plaguing him for weeks now, has made him wonder if keeping Theon by his side was a mistake. “Theon might have been able to convince his father to join our cause.”

“ _Nothing_ would have convinced him. If you need to send someone, send one of your other bannermen. Sending Theon would look like an insult.”

“Theon’s from the Iron Islands. _Not_ sending him would be an insult.” Robb knows his frustration is leaking into his tone, knows that his mother can tell that he’s already made up his mind. “He won’t be going alone. I’ll send someone else with him. Dacey or Smalljon, maybe.”

“Robb, please rethink this.”

“I’ve already made my decision,” he says. The words come out harsher than he intends. While he respects his mother’s opinion, he knows he can’t rely on it forever, knows that there are always other alternatives. “Now. Will you tell me what the Tyrells want in exchange for their support? I know they must have asked you for something.”

His mother sighs, and when she looks at him, her expression is apologetic. “They want you.”

 

*

 

Robb doesn’t want to get married.

He doesn’t want to be wed to a woman he hardly knows, someone who was chosen for him because it was the best political alliance. Margaery Tyrell may be gorgeous and kind and clever and she may be the perfect queen, but Robb has no interest in marrying her. He knows that the Tyrells were the ones to come up with the idea, that they’re the ones who convinced Walder Frey to marry a daughter to Robb’s uncle and a son to one of Margaery’s cousins instead. 

_It happened while you were at the Crag_ , his mother tells him later. _I think they had this plan in motion the minute Renly died. Had I not been at Bitterbridge, who knows what they may have chosen to do instead._

Robb tries to stifle his annoyance at being left out of such negotiations, tries not to be insulted that his mother and Olenna Tyrell saw fit to treat with Walder Frey in his place. 

“Arya is still to be wed to one of his son if she’s found,” his mother says, her mouth set in a firm, displeased line.

“And? Is that it?”

Robb tries to direct the question to his mother instead of the Queen of Thorns, but Lady Olenna is the still one who answers. 

“A son or daughter will be fostered at King’s Landing,” she says. “The greedy fool could hardly refuse such a proposal. He had no problem swapping one king for another.”

The comment stings. His bannermen - the ones he allowed into the meeting - shift restlessly. The Greatjon looks about ready to leap across the table and even Jon has a scowl on his face, his hands clenched into tight fists by his side. 

“Stannis won’t agree to those terms,” he says carefully. 

“If he’s as stupid as his brother, it won’t take much to convince Stannis Baratheon to agree to our terms,” Lady Olenna says, paying no heed to the disgruntled murmurs around her.

“ _My_ terms,” Robb says, stressing the words, “are for the North to remain an independent kingdom. I have no plans to win the throne from Stannis. If the stories about the Cersei and Jaime Lannister are true, then he’s the rightful heir. But the North will become a separate kingdom like it was before the Targaryens came to Westeros.”

A tense silence falls over the room. Robb knows he needs this alliance, but he will not be bullied into fighting for a throne he doesn’t want. He has had reports from the city that Joffrey is to be executed, that Cersei Lannister and her younger children are imprisoned within the castle. Jaime Lannister still rots in Riverrun’s dungeons and Robb now wonders what to do with him, wonders if sending him to Stannis will help smooth any potential alliance they may make. He worries that Stannis may see his alliance with the Tyrells as an insult, that he may retaliate by striking a deal with any of the houses who have not yet chosen a side. Sending Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing may bring him just as much luck with Stannis as any pretty words and promises from the Tyrells.

“I am grateful to House Tyrell for honoring the alliance I entered into with Renly,” he says slowly, “but if your support rests solely on the North challenging Stannis for the throne, I think we may need to renegotiate. I have no plans to continue marching south. I plan to return north and deal with the problems arising there.”

To his surprise, Lady Olenna smiles. “I see why they’ve started calling you the Young Wolf,” she says. She folds her hands together and looks at him with an indecipherable expression.

“Did you know,” she begins, “that the Lannisters sent an envoy to Highgarden the day Renly died? They’d hatched a plan to wed my granddaughter to Joffrey in place of your sister. His corpse hadn’t even been buried and they were already plotting to sway us to their side. Had we agreed, you’d be fighting a very different war right now.”

 _What would have happened then?_ he wants to ask. _Would I still be fighting this war? Or would the Lannisters have found some way to prevent my victories in the Crag?_

He clears his throat, hopes that his nervousness doesn’t seep into his voice when he speaks. “I thank you again for your support. If your house agrees to help me in taking back the North and in the event that Stannis rejects any attempt at negotiation, I’ll agree to your terms.”

“And your sister Sansa is still to wed my grandson?” Lady Olenna asks. She studies him closely, and Robb knows what she’s going to ask before the words even leave her mouth. “And you agree to wed my granddaughter?”

Robb pauses for a fraction of a second, glances over at Jon who is watching him with a dark, troubled expression. 

“Yes,” Robb says firmly, sliding his gaze away from Jon. “I agree.”

 

*

 

He finds Jon brooding in an abandoned section of the armory. 

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Robb says softly. 

“You did what you had to,” Jon says. He doesn’t meet Robb’s eyes, but a muscle twitches in his cheek and his shoulders are hunched and tense. 

“I don’t want to marry her anymore than I wanted to marry the Frey girl,” Robb says. He takes a step toward Jon, frowning when Jon flinches and moves away. 

“You did your duty. It was a good political decision. She’s very beautiful and I’m sure she’ll make a good queen,” he says, and the words are as hollow as his expression.

Robb takes another step forward, grabbing onto Jon’s arm to keep him from bolting. He forces Jon to look at him, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t because the look on Jon’s face is _devastating_.

“I won’t watch you get married. I _can’t_. Don’t ask it of me.” 

“We both knew it was always going to happen,” Robb says. 

A flush creeps over Jon’s cheeks and he tries to pull away from Robb, but Robb keeps a firm grip on his arm. He pulls him closer, presses a kiss against Jon’s forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment. 

“I know,” Jon says. “Even as children I always knew you’d be wed to the daughter of some lord. That some pretty girl would come in and steal your heart and give you half a dozen children.”

“Jon—”

“Because how could she not love you,” he interrupts, and his tone is miserable and loyal and fond all at once. “And you’re such a stupid, honorable, romantic oaf that you’d end up falling in love with her as well.”

Robb chooses to ignore the slight. He forces Jon to look at him, tilting his face up until Jon reluctantly meets his gaze.

“I won’t ever love her the way I love you,” Robb promises. He tangles their hands together, squeezing his fingers in reassurance. “She may be beautiful and cunning and kind, but she’ll never replace you. You’re the one I gave my heart to all those years ago, and if you haven’t realized that yet, you’re more foolish than I thought. It’ll only ever be you.”

Robb’s relieved to see Jon’s lips quirk in faint amusement. He wraps a hand around Jon’s neck, fingers tangling in Jon’s curls as he pulls him in for a kiss. It’s soft and quick, more about comfort than anything else. Jon kisses him with more force, slides one hand over Robb’s back to settle on his hip. 

“We should go somewhere else,” Jon says. He looks at the door briefly, doubt clouding his features.

“It’ll be fine,” Robb promises. 

Robb pushes him closer against the stone wall, and it’s so reminiscent of the previous night that Robb wants nothing more than to strip Jon of his clothes and have his way with him right here where anyone could see. 

Their kisses grow more heated, more desperate, and Robb feels his cock stirring in his breeches. He whines when Jon’s hands sneak downwards, when his fingers dip underneath the waistband of his breeches and ghost over the swell of his ass.

They’re so involved with each other that neither of them hear the door open. It takes the clattering of a sword dropping onto the ground to make them realize they’re not alone. Robb feels his blood freeze and the air leave his lungs when he looks over his shoulder to find Loras Tyrell staring at them in shock. Any excuse dies on the tip of his tongue and he suddenly feels very, very young and very, very stupid.

“I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here,” Loras says. There’s a blush spreading across his cheeks, and though his expression is still full of surprise, there’s a strange curiosity there as well. “My apologies.”

He turns and leaves before either Robb or Jon have gathered their wits about them. The echo of the door shutting reverberates throughout the room and it makes Robb feel sick and anxious and horrified. He chances a look at Jon, who looks just as worried and distressed as he feels.

Robb wonders if this is how the gods have chosen to punish him for his transgressions.

 

*

 

Neither of them are able to find any trace of Loras Tyrell later that day. Riverrun is a small castle, so Robb has absolutely no idea where’s hiding. Panic and fear start to overwhelm him by the time night falls, and Robb feels as though everything in his life is slowly falling apart. He fears waking up tomorrow to find his new allies gone, to find that his own men have abandoned him as well. 

“I should have stayed at the Wall,” Jon says. “None of this would have happened then.”

“Don’t,” Robb says sharply. "Don't you dare say that."

Jon frowns at him, and an uncertain silence falls over him as they make their way to their separate chambers. Robb watches him go and wonders if his love for his brother has just cost him his crown and kingdom, his honor and respect.


End file.
